


See? (You're a That)

by 8sword



Series: His Fucking Kids [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Castiel, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Dean Winchester, Episode: s08e18 Freaks and Geeks, Gen, Jealousy, Kid Fic, M/M, stepsisters!Claire & Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Krissy can beat Dean at poker and Cas at poker and she knows the words to all the songs Dean has playing on the record player in the corner while they all play cards at the table. Krissy's sly and smirking and can even draw smiles out of Claire. Krissy's loud and brave and insistent and human.</p><p>Emma's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See? (You're a That)

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place not so long after "Pot and Kettle." Lyrics from Brett Detar's "The Devil's Gotta Earn."
> 
> Statements made and views espoused here do not necessarily represent those of the writer.

 

_I hear everybody talkin', wishin' I was gone._

_Everybody else is doin' everybody wrong_

_Well, all right. I'm done hangin' round._

 

                It's a Thursday afternoon in August, and Dean's been out on the front porch since he got home, trying to install a bench swing.

                It's hot, so his over shirt doesn't last long; he tosses it over the bench railing and doesn't think anything of it until Emma's bus rattles up and hisses to a stop at the end of the driveway. They're not that close to the road, out here in the _boonies_ , as Emma often complaints, but apparently it's close enough for some kids to get an eyeful, because a series of wolf whistles break through the air and the low, crabby growl of the bus engine.

                "Seriously?" Emma's all aflare when she gets to the porch. "You couldn't, I dunno, wear _clothes_?"

                "What, and deprive the world of all this sex appeal?" Dean motions down at himself, the numerous old grease and sweat stains covering his tight t-shirt.

                Emma snorts. Walks past him into the house, screen door banging shut behind her.

                "Hey," Dean hollers after her. "You wanna come out here and help me?"

                "No," she shouts back.

                Dean considers the assortment of screws and washers in front of him. Squints out at the dry August afternoon, the air above the browning grass warped with heat.

                He hollers, "Then will you bring me something to drink?"

                His answer is footsteps pounding up the stairs.

               

\- o -

 

                Emma's been at her desk maybe half an hour when she hears the engine outside. It's not Cas's Honda, that would be quieter. She pushes away from her secondhand desk, rolling across the floor in her Office Depot swivel chair, to look out the windows framed by JC Penney's curtains.

                It's a van. A sketchy, lame van, and there's kids piling out of it.

                There's kids piling out of it, and Dean's jumping down off the porch and grabbing one of them in a hug.

                Emma pushes away from the window. Her heart is suddenly beating hard.

                Downstairs, there's the sound of the door opening. She freezes. Doesn't breathe as voices and footsteps troop inside, loud and excited.

                "---the fuck, Dean, you've gone domestic--"

                "--seriously, Aidan--?"

                "--watch the mouth, smartass--"

                Emma eases out of her chair. She creeps out of her bedroom, into the hallway, careful to stay on the rug covering the wood floor. The mirror and credenza set Cas bought at a yard sale a few weeks ago sit at the other end of the hall, the reflection showing her slow, stupidly careful tiptoe toward the stairs.

                She creeps down the first five steps, just far enough see part of the living room through the banister if she crouches down. A dark-haired boy's flinging himself onto the sofa, stretching out, and a girl with lighter, fluffed hair sits formally straight in Cas's armchair. Dean and the girl he hugged must be in the corner of the living room that Emma can't see.

                "No, seriously," the boy is saying now. "I mean, when Garth told us you'd gone soccer dad, we thought for sure something sketchy was going on. Are you sure we don't need to break out some silver? When's the last time you got your testosterone checked?"

                "Does he ever shut up?" Dean's voice, dry. Laughter twinkles just below it.

                "I wish." It must be the girl's voice. Hers is as wry as Dean's, but like she's smiling, too, something about the curve of her voice. "He's like that non-stop."

                "She's lying," says the girl in Cas's armchair. "He shuts up when they're mauling each other's faces."

                "Oh my GOD," the other girl says loudly, as the boy shouts with laughter. He flails his legs as the girl comes into Emma's line of vision to punch him. "Help, help, domestic violence--"

                He scrambles over the back of the couch, toppling onto the floor on the other side and making a dash for the stairs. Emma's eyes go wide; she scrambles up to run back to her room, but it's too late--the girl's eyes are already swinging up. They land on Emma.

                Emma freezes.

                That's when the front door opens. Cas walks inside, tugging his tie loose with one hand, the other holding his keys. He stops when he sees the people in the living room.

                "Cas!" Dean says.

                "Dean," Cas replies. "I see we have guests." His eyes, impossibly, flick up to the stairs--flick straight to Emma. They're on her for only a second, no acknowledgement that he's seen her, before he's setting down his keys and stepping forward with a hand extended. "Hello."

                "Uh...hi," says the girl. She's looking between him and Dean.

                "Uh," Dean says. He hooks his thumbs in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels. Somewhere between now and when Emma saw him, he's put his over shirt back on. "Guys, this is Cas. Cas, this is the Scooby Gang. Josephine, Krissy, and that's Aidan."

                "See?" Krissy says to Aidan. "You're a _that_."

                "That he is," Josephine says, dry.

                Cas not-quite-smiles. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintances." His eyes flick upward again, just barely, and Krissy's follows them. Emma scoots hurriedly up the stairs--they can probably hear her, but by now the game is up anyway, and she sits on the top step, face burning.

                Cas comes up the stairs casually, loosening his tie. He stops at the top step, and lowers himself beside Emma.

                "They're hunters."

                Emma's not sure if it's a question. "Yes."

                "This is why you're hiding."

                "Uh," Emma says. That hadn't actually occurred to her. "Yes."

                Cas considers her. His head only gets to tilt a little bit at this angle, close as they are. Emma tries not to squirm, remembering how only a few months ago, she'd been too afraid of Cas to get within even ten feet of him, much less to sit hip to hip with him.

                "I will protect you," Cas says finally. "Come."

                He holds out his hand. Emma blinks at it for a minute. She's not really sure how she ends up taking it and going downstairs with him, into the living room.

                All eyes are on them immediately. Josephine and Aidan are both in the living room still, and they get up. Dean and Krissy's voices come from the kitchen:

                "--the hell're you drinking diet for, Krissy, I didn't take you for that sort of prissy chick--"

                "It's called not wanting to get diabetes, dorkface--"

                "Uh, guys?" Aidan says. "Less creepy flirting and more introducing?"

                Dean comes in with Krissy, holding a handful of cold cans of soda. He blinks when he sees Emma next to Cas, and it's stupid that Emma pulls her hand out of Cas's as fast as she does, like she's holding onto something radioactive.

                "So....?" Aidan says. "Who's the hot chick? Your genderbent self from a spell gone bad?"

                Josephine casts him a disgusted look.

                "Uh," Dean says. Then his forehead creases. "Wait, is that actually a thing? Genderbending? Who does that even happen to?"

                "Garth," the kids say in unison.

                Dean rolls his eyes. "Of course."

                Cas is bristling, his smiting vibe cranked all the way to ten. He can tell, like Emma, that Dean is talking around the subject. He opens his mouth, taking in a breath, and Emma catches a bit of his sleeve in his fingers.

                No. Please.

                Cas's breath leaves him in a slow exhalation. He looks at her, eyes blue and too discerning.

                Emma looks away from him. "I'm Emma," she says. Gives a little wave, Charlie-style. "I, uh... I live here. With Cas. And Dean."

                Aidan looks over at Dean. "What, since you couldn't adopt us you just decided to find some other orphan?"

                "Aidan!" Josephine hisses.

                "What?"

                A buzzing sound is coming from Dean's pocket. He fumbles it out, and Emma looks away from his hand, realizing she's watching him. She looks at the coffee table instead, the glass-paned one Claire picked out when Cas and Dean dragged them to a discount furniture outlet after they moved in.

                "Hello? Hey, Claire--yeah, hang on, we'll head out now."

                It's supposed to match the wood of the TV stand. But the two woods aren't quite the same color, and in the afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows, it's impossible not to see that they're not a matched set. The coffee table's wood is darker, the grain a little more pronounced.

                "Claire's done with band practice." Dean flips his phone shut. He chews on his lip. "Should I--?"

                "I will fetch her." Cas is already pulling his keys back out of his pocket. "Emma?"

                "Yeah," she says immediately. Trots around him out onto the porch, down the steps to where his Honda's baking in the driveway behind the blue van. She keeps her back to the house as she waits for Cas to unlock the car, keeps her eyes on the radio as she slides into the passenger seat and waits for him to unlock the engine. Pretends to fiddle with the stations as they pull out of the driveway, and not once does she lift her eyes to the house to see if anyone's looking back.

               

\- o -

 

                Claire's waiting on the sidewalk outside the band hall. Her huge, overstuffed backpack sits next to her even huger instrument case.

                Emma slithers through the space between Cas's front seats to crawl into the back. Claire shoves her things into the trunk as Cas pops it for her, then slides into the backseat next to Emma. She smells like re-applied deodorant and sweaty fabric left in a gym locker. Emma scoots closer,  until their shoulders touch. Claire gives her a weirded-out look but presses back.

                "Claire," Cas says as he pulls away from the curb. Across the road, a street lamp flickers on. "We have guests."

 

\- o -

 

                Maybe she missed the conversation in which Junior Hunters 1, 2, and 3 said how long they were going to stay. Two days later they're still camped out in the living room and no one but Emma seems agitated that they're. Still. There.

                 "Hey." Dean corners her on Day Two, when everyone else in the kitchen helping to make dinner.  She's in a tree in the back yard, has been for about two hours, not that anyone came to look. "You wanna tell me what the cold shoulder's for?"

                Emma looks down at him. One of Claire's iPod ear buds dangles down her neck, tinny sounds coming out of the little white speaker. Dean grimaces at it, the way he grimaces at all modern technology. Emma scowls back.

                He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, rocking back on his heels to look up at her. "You could at least come in and say hey. It's not like I'm asking you to be BFFs or whatever."

                "Good," Emma mutters.

                Dean squints at her. She puts the ear bud back in and ignores him.

                He sighs. Turns away. Then he turns back, boots crunching on the parched grass.

                "It's not like they know what you are, you know."

                "No," Emma says. "They don't, do they?"

                She hops down out of the tree, yanking the buds out of her ears, and walks away.

 

\- o -

 

                Dean likes Krissy a lot. Calls her kiddo and sport and squirt. Lets her help him clean the guns and polish the knives and peel vegetables for dinner.

                Krissy's a hunter. Krissy can beat Dean at poker and Cas at poker and she knows the words to all the songs Dean has playing on the record player in the corner while they all play cards at the table. Krissy's sly and smirking and can even draw smiles out of Claire. Krissy's loud and brave and insistent and human.

                Dean probably wishes Krissy was his kid.

 

\- o -

 

                The house is dark when she comes back. Emma uses the back door anyway, easing silently into the kitchen. The digital clock glows green over the stove: **2:14**. Everything else is black, darker shadows where the table is, where the chairs are.

                Why did she ever come here? She could have been independent by now. She could have been safe, she could have been happy, she could have--

                A glowing square appears in the dark: a tiny screen.

                It tilts. The faint blue glow silhouettes Claire at the table, ear buds trailing from her ears. She's little more than a shadow, but Emma feels their eyes meet.

                Claire takes the ear buds out. She presses a button on her iPod, and the light disappears. Her silhouette goes with it. They're in darkness now.

                "You left it outside."

                "Sorry," Emma mutters. Angry that she feels guilty. Guilty that she feels angry.

                Claire's silent for a minute. Then she says, "I wouldn't have given it to you if I thought you were going to leave it behind."

                Emma's hand curls around the bus ticket in her pocket.

                They're quiet for a long time.

                When one of Aidan's snores in the living room finally breaks the silence, Claire stands up. Her chair scraps backward on the floor.

                "Come here," she says.

                They go into the living room. They pass Krissy and Josephine and Aidan where they're stretched out with old quilts Cas got at Goodwill and throw pillows from Kirkland's. They go up the stairs.

                The door to Dean and Cas's room is open, dark. Emma doesn't look inside as they pass.

                Claire stops in front of Emma's room.

                There's a dark shape by her desk. It's a person, slouched in her Office Depot chair, arms crossed, chin against his chest. Little whistles of breath escape his nose each time he breathes, slow and soft. He smells of oil and dish detergent.

                Emma looks back at Claire's silhouette in the hallway. Claire says, "Dean."

                Dean jolts awake. He blinks once, twice, sitting up in Emma's chair. "Eh," he grunts, tired; then, focusing on her: "Emma."

                She shuffles her feet.

                "Hey," he says hoarsely. Stands up, abruptly, like a guy in a Jane Austen novel who suddenly realizes he's in the presence of a lady.

                Behind them, there's a frustrated sound. It's Cas; he's standing behind Claire in his sweatpants and sleep shirt, hair messy. "Dean," he says, and it's half warning, half resignation.

                "I'm going to pack," Claire says. "Emma, I'll meet you downstairs."

                "Wait, what?" Dean's wide awake now.

                "Emma's leaving," Claire says patiently, like she's talking to a three-year-old. "I go where she goes."

                Emma's chest goes all tight and funny. Her face feels strange, hot and tingly and too big. She stares at Claire while Dean sputters, "The hell are you leaving for?"

                Cas's lips are pursed. "I _told_ you she would be upset, Dean--"

                Dean throws his arms up. "Well, excuse me for not saying, 'Hey, crazy jump-the-gun hunter-kids who have a history of going Buffy on innocent people, come meet my full-grown kid!" He huffs out an angry breath. "Am I the only one in this family who thought about how long it'd take them to start wondering how I magically have a daughter who's sixteen years old?"

                Silence.

                Claire breaks it. "I don't know if it's occurred to you, Dean, but you weren't the most abstinent teenager."

                Dean looks at her. Cas sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and pads inside, over to Emma's nightstand to turn on her lamp. It's from the clearance shelf at Spencer's; it casts a multi-colored pattern of rainbow circles onto the ceiling.

                "Do I really want to know how you're so familiar with my sex life all of a sudden, Claire?" Dean says.

                Claire rolls her eyes. "It's in the Edlund books, Dean. Josephine's read them, I'm sure Krissy has, too. I've been dropping hints that Emma's the result of you not paying enough attention in health class back in the day."

                Emma's not sure whether to feel offended or impressed. By the look on Dean's face, he's not, either. His features are going through a series of contortions. None of them look very comfortable.

                Claire rolls her eyes again. Cas pushes off of Emma's bed and goes to Claire, touching her arm. She makes a dissatisfied sound but follows Cas out of the room, closing Emma's door behind them.

                Dean sits back down in Emma's chair. Heavy, like something's been taken out of him. Emma goes to her lamp and passes her fingers over the top to dim the light, undim it. She watches the shadows shift on the carpet.

                "Is that why you didn't say anything?" she says finally. "About--us?"

                She looks up. Dean's face is half shadow, half pink-tinged light from the lamp. He's rubbing his forehead. There's something sticking out of his pocket, she sees for the first time, and when he sees her looking, he reaches inside and pulls it out. Scoots forward in the chair, pulling it across the carpet with his feet, to hand it to her.

                It's an iPod. One of the older ones, rectangular, the corners a little scuffed and the screen scratched in a few places.

                "It's not new," Dean says. "But--I emptied it out. So you can put what you want in there."

                Emma turns it over in her hand. "It's pink."

                The pink side of his face turns pinker. "Yeah, well, Charlie gave it to me."

                Emma looks up. "It's yours?"

                "Did you miss the part where I gave it to you?" His voice is gruff.

                Emma looks back down at it. She runs her thumb across the cracked screen.

 

\- o -

 

                A few days later, when Krissy and Josephine and Aidan have rattled away in their blue van after promising to drop in the next time Dean needs to borrow the van for some soccer momming, Dean's back on the front porch, perched on a ladder to drill holes in the wood for the swing. The first bite of autumn is in the air, and dry brown leaves rustle across the road as Emma's bus pulls up, as it pulls away.

                Emma meets his eyes as she comes up the porch steps. She nods a little; he nods back, and she goes inside. He hears her kicking off her shoes. He pulls his safety glasses back down and goes back to drilling.

                A few minutes later a shadow stretches across the wood in front of him. He kills the drill, glances down.

                Emma's holding two Capri Suns in one hand, her iPod in the other. She looks at him, waves it a little, a question.

                He nods. She hands him one of the Capri Suns and sticks the iPod into the dock speaker thing she brought outside with her. Then she settles down on the other side of his toolbox as a song comes on and pulls a square of sandpaper and one of the planks toward her.

                 The drill whines, the sandpaper rasps, Emma hums, and Dean can't ask for much more than this.

 

_You got your soul, boy, and that's all you need to sing._

               

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
